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Best Famous Grandmother Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Grandmother poems. This is a select list of the best famous Grandmother poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Grandmother poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of grandmother poems.

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by Mark Van Doren | |

Our Lady Peace

 How far is it to peace, the piper sighed,
The solitary, sweating as he paused.
Asphalt the noon; the ravens, terrified, Fled carrion thunder that percussion caused.
The envelope of earth was powder loud; The taut wings shivered, driven at the sun.
The piper put his pipe away and bowed.
Not here, he said.
I hunt the love-cool one, The dancer with the clipped hair.
Where is she? We shook our heads, parting for him to pass.
Our lady was of no such trim degree, And none of us had seen her face, alas.
She was the very ridges that we must scale, Securing the rough top.
And how she smiled Was how our strength would issue.
Not to fail Was having her, gigantic, undefiled, For homely goddess, big as the world that burned, Grandmother and taskmistress, frild and town.
We let the stranger go; but when we turned Our lady lived, fierce in each other's frown.


by | |

Ride Away, Ride Away


Ride away, ride away,
  Johnny shall ride,
And he shall have pussy-cat
  Tied to one side;
And he shall have little dog
  Tied to the other,
And Johnny shall ride
  To see his grandmother.


by Louise Gluck | |

Saints

 In our family, there were two saints,
my aunt and my grandmother.
But their lives were different.
My grandmother's was tranquil, even at the end.
She was like a person walking in calm water; for some reason the sea couldn't bring itself to hurt her.
When my aunt took the same path, the waves broke over her, they attacked her, which is how the Fates respond to a true spiritual nature.
My grandmother was cautious, conservative: that's why she escaped suffering.
My aunt's escaped nothing; each time the sea retreats, someone she loves is taken away.
Still she won't experience the sea as evil.
To her, it is what it is: where it touches land, it must turn to violence.


by Kimiko Hahn | |

In Childhood

 things don't die or remain damaged 
but return: stumps grow back hands, 
a head reconnects to a neck, 
a whole corpse rises blushing and newly elastic.
Later this vision is not True: the grandmother remains dead not hibernating in a wolf's belly.
Or the blue parakeet does not return from the little grave in the fern garden though one may wake in the morning thinking mother's call is the bird.
Or maybe the bird is with grandmother inside light.
Or grandmother was the bird and is now the dog gnawing on the chair leg.
Where do the gone things go when the child is old enough to walk herself to school, her playmates already pumping so high the swing hiccups?


by Geoffrey Hill | |

Mercian Hymns XXV

 Brooding on the eightieth letter of Fors Clavigera, I speak this in
memory of my grandmother, whose childhood and prime womanhood were spent
in the nailer's darg.
The nailshop stood back of the cottage, by the fold.
It reeked stale mineral sweat.
Sparks had furred its low roof.
In dawn-light the troughed water floated a damson-bloom of dust --- not to be shaken by posthumous clamour.
It is one thing to celebrate the 'quick forge', another to cradle a face hare-lipped by the searing wire.
Brooding on the eightieth letter of Fors Clavigera, I speak this in memory of my grandmother, whose childhood and prime womanhood were spent in the nailer's darg.


by Edward Lear | |

There was an Old Man on a hill

There was an Old Man on a hill,
Who seldom, if ever, stood still;
He ran up and down in his Grandmother's gown,
Which adorned that Old Man on a hill.


by Edward Lear | |

There was a Young Person of Smyrna

There was a Young Person of Smyrna,
Whose Grandmother threatened to burn her;
But she seized on the Cat, and said, "Granny, burn that!
You incongruous Old Woman of Smyrna!"


by Edgar Lee Masters | |

Rita Matlock Gruenberg

 Grandmother! You who sang to green valleys,
And passed to a sweet repose at ninety-six,
Here is your little Rita at last
Grown old, grown forty-nine;
Here stretched on your grave under the winter stars,
With the rustle of oak leaves over my head;
Piecing together strength for the act,
Last thoughts, memories, asking how I am here!
After wandering afar, over the world,
Life in cities, marriages, motehrhood--
(They all married, and I am homeless, alone.
) Grandmother! I have not lacked in strength, Nor will, nor courage.
No! I have honored you With a life that used these gifts of your blood.
But I was caught in trap after trap in the years.
At last the cruelist trap of all.
Then I fought the bars, pried open the door, Crawled through -- but it suddenly sprang shut, And tore me to death as I used your courage To free myself! Grandmother! Fold me to your breast again.
Make me earth with you for the blossoms of spring-- Grandmother!


by Edgar Lee Masters | |

Enoch Dunlap

 How many times, during the twenty years
I was your leader, friends of Spoon River,
Did you neglect the convention and caucus,
And leave the burden on my hands
Of guarding and saving the people's cause? --
Sometimes because you were ill;
Or your grandmother was ill;
Or you drank too much and fell asleep;
Or else you said: "He is our leader,
All will be well; he fights for us;
We have nothing to do but follow.
" But oh, how you cursed me when I fell, And cursed me, saying I had betrayed you, In leaving the caucus room for a moment, When the people's enemies, there assembled, Waited and watched for a chance to destroy The Sacred Rights of the People.
You common rabble! I left the caucus To go to the urinal.


by Judith Wright | |

Request to a Year

 If the year is meditating a suitable gift, 
I should like it to be the attitude 
of my great- great- grandmother, 
legendary devotee of the arts, 

who having eight children 
and little opportunity for painting pictures, 
sat one day on a high rock 
beside a river in Switzerland 

and from a difficult distance viewed 
her second son, balanced on a small ice flow,drift down the current toward a waterfall 
that struck rock bottom eighty feet below, 

while her second daughter, impeded, 
no doubt, by the petticoats of the day, 
stretched out a last-hope alpenstock 
(which luckily later caught him on his way).
Nothing, it was evident, could be done; And with the artist's isolating eye My great-great-grandmother hastily sketched the scene.
The sketch survives to prove the story by.
Year, if you have no Mother's day present planned, Reach back and bring me the firmness of her hand.


by Robert William Service | |

The Mother

 Your children grow from you apart,
 Afar and still afar;
And yet it should rejoice your heart
 To see how glad they are;
In school and sport, in work and play,
 And last, in wedded bliss
How others claim with joy to-day
 The lips you used to kiss.
Your children distant will become, And wide the gulf will grow; The lips of loving will be dumb, The trust you used to know Will in another's heart repose, Another's voice will cheer .
.
.
And you will fondle baby clothes And brush away a tear.
But though you are estranged almost, And often lost to view, How you will see a little ghost Who ran to cling to you! Yet maybe children's children will Caress you with a smile .
.
.
Grandmother love will bless you still,-- Well, just a little while.


by Robert William Service | |

Old Sweethearts

 Oh Maggie, do you mind the day
 We went to school together,
And as we stoppit by the way
 I rolled you in the heather?
My! but you were the bonny lass
 And we were awfu' late for class.
Your locks are now as white as snow, And you are ripe and wrinkled, A grandmother ten times or so, Yet how your blue eyes twinkled At me above your spectacles, Recalling naughty neck-tickles! It must be fifty years today I left you for the Yukon; You haven't changed - your just as gay And just as sweet to look on.
But can you see in this old fool The lad who made you late for school? Oh Maggie, ask me in to tea And we can talk things over, And contemplate the nuptial state, For I am still your lover: And though the bell be slow to chime We'll no be grudgin' o' the time


by Katherine Mansfield | |

Butterfly Laughter

 In the middle of our porridge plates
There was a blue butterfly painted
And each morning we tried who should reach the
butterfly first.
Then the Grandmother said: "Do not eat the poor butterfly.
" That made us laugh.
Always she said it and always it started us laughing.
It seemed such a sweet little joke.
I was certain that one fine morning The butterfly would fly out of our plates, Laughing the teeniest laugh in the world, And perch on the Grandmother's lap.


by Chris Tusa | |

Alzheimer’s

 My grandmother’s teeth stare at her
from a mason jar on the nightstand.
The radio turns itself on, sunlight crawls through the window, and she thinks she feels her bright blue eyes rolling out her head.
She’s certain her blood has turned to dirt, that beetles haunt the dark hollow of her bones.
The clock on the kitchen wall is missing its big hand.
The potatoes in the sink are growing eyes.
She stares at my grandfather standing in the doorway, his smile flickering like the side of an axe.
Outside, in the yard, a chicken hops through the tall grass, looking for its head.


by Alice Walker | |

When Golda Meir was in Africa

When Golda Meir
Was in Africa
She shook out her hair
And combed it
Everywhere she went.
According to her autobiography Africans loved this.
In Russia, Minneapolis, London, Washington, D.
C.
, Germany, Palestine, Tel Aviv and Jerusalem She never combed at all.
There was no point.
In those Places people said, "She looks like Any other aging grandmother.
She looks Like a troll.
Let's sell her cookery And guns.
" "Kreplach your cookery," said Golda.
Only in Africa could she finally Settle down and comb her hair.
The children crept up and stroked it, And she felt beautiful.
Such wonderful people, Africans Childish, arrogant, self-indulgent, pompous, Cowardly and treacherous-a great disappointment To Israel, of course, and really rather Ridiculous in international affairs But, withal, opined Golda, a people of charm And good taste.


by Nikki Giovanni | |

Knoxville Tennessee

 I always like summer
Best
you can eat fresh corn
From daddy's garden
And okra
And greens
And cabbage
And lots of
Barbeque
And buttermilk
And homemade ice-cream
At the church picnic
And listen to
Gospel music
Outside
At the church
Homecoming
And go to the mountains with
Your grandmother
And go barefooted
And be warm
All the time
Not only when you go to bed
And sleep


by Carl Sandburg | |

Helga

 THE WISHES on this child’s mouth
Came like snow on marsh cranberries;
The tamarack kept something for her;
The wind is ready to help her shoes.
The north has loved her; she will be A grandmother feeding geese on frosty Mornings; she will understand Early snow on the cranberries Better and better then.